


you get two moves

by sumaru



Series: team oikage two seventeen [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Blood, Coercion, Drugs, Everything Is Kinda Dubious, Guns, Kageyama Wears A Dress, M/M, Milk, Minor Violence, Murder, Shitty Lipstick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 00:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11862615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/pseuds/sumaru
Summary: The taste-smell of the kill shot lingers on Oikawa's hands forty-seven storeys above the city.A small series of Secret Agent Training Continues To Be The Actual Worst, or: the two times Kageyama gets tied to a chair by his mentor Oikawa, and the one time they get to see the city lights together. This is probably some kind of romance.





	1. chair 1 / milk

Kageyama wakes to cold droplets hitting his face before he even realises what’s happening.   
  
Oikawa will probably write him up for that.  
  
“This is your favourite, isn’t it, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa says brightly as he slowly pours a carton of milk between Kageyama’s legs. Kageyama had been dozing fitfully under the flickering green lights for the last three days. It’s been three days since he’s been tied to this half-rusted metal chair in their makeshift interrogation room by the river. It’s been three days since Oikawa has been trying to break him and Kageyama knows because he’s been keeping careful count by the crawl of sun shadows across the wall, just the way Oikawa had taught him, and Kageyama also knows he just needs to last two more.  
  
Kageyama frowns. His bones ache from the confinement but he thinks he’s doing okay. “They won’t know what I like to drink.” His voice comes out rougher than he’d like.  
  
“Maybe I told them,” Oikawa smiles. There’s something feral about it. He’s also been here for three days. The milk splashes gently against Kageyama’s pants crusted with the dried blood that had trailed from the shallow cuts in his thigh and the mix of it smells heavy and meaty, makes him a little hazy after this last day without food or water. “Maybe I betrayed the agency for knowledge of where they buried Iwa-chan and told them where to find you. Or maybe they catch me first and break my fingers so _I_  tell them everything I know about you, Tobio-chan.” Oikawa leans in so close Kageyama can feel Oikawa’s breath warm and wet on his mouth. “Do you remember the way I made you cry in the dark that one week.”  
  
“I didn’t cry,” Kageyama grits out. He’s struggling uselessly against the wire that binds him. He can smell the sweetness of milk on Oikawa’s breath. He’s not crying but something burns hot and awful inside the hollow of his chest. “And you could never be turned for money. I also know about you, Oikawa-san.”  
  
“That’s what Iwa-chan said, too, you know.” The milk carton hits the wall behind Kageyama with hardly a sound. “But let’s play that game.”  
  
Oikawa grabs Kageyama’s chair from the back and dumps him abruptly to the ground, halting the drop only right before Kageyama’s face smashes into the concrete. Kageyama doesn’t yell. Kageyama is lightheaded with his last breath stuck in his mouth but Kageyama doesn’t even throw up from the adrenaline sickness. He’s gotten so much better at this.  
  
“It’s been twenty-four hours since your last meal, hasn’t it,” Oikawa says conversationally. He’s standing above Kageyama holding up the chair with both hands and Kageyama can hear the old metal protesting his weight. Kageyama can only see Oikawa’s shoes, the neat leather an island in the pool of milk now tinged pink by old blood. “House rules are that you get something to eat after that.”  
  
Oikawa shakes the chair. “Make me proud, Tobio-chan.”  
  
“I would never let them break your fingers, Oikawa-san,” Kageyama says instead, voice tense, as he slowly drags his tongue through the sweet white-pink milk and tastes himself in it, salty and metallic and obedient. 

 

 


	2. chair 2 / wire trap

Kageyama tries to flip over the chair without much success.  
  
Even the full strength of his legs does him no good, tied as he is by the ankles and wrists to the chair. Oikawa had used wire, looped a dozen times, thin enough that if Kageyama moved even a centimetre wrong, it would slice through him like he was just so much soft meat. Oikawa would probably love that. It would be nothing new to either of them.  
  
For a moment, Kageyama wonders if the handful of seconds while he’s bleeding out are worth the chance it would offer him. Stupid, Kageyama thinks. Oikawa-san would laugh and call him stupid. That somehow feels worse than having thin wire cut into his bones, and Kageyama shivers despite himself; it’s cold here, but the adrenaline running electric under his skin burns him feverish and bright.  
  
“Looks like even the little genius  _can_  get caught afterall,” Oikawa says conversationally. There’s a slim knife in his hands, but it’s the sharpness of his mouth that Kageyama worries about. Or maybe it’s the way the blade flicks in and out between Oikawa’s fingers. “Lucky, lucky, lucky me.”  
  
The small room is stripped bare of furniture. There is only the naked lightbulb hanging low from the ceiling, the rickety wooden chair Kageyama is strapped to, the table Oikawa is sitting on, cross-legged and elegant as if he’s without a care in the world. He probably doesn’t have a care in the world, at least not right now, what with the body of an enemy agent slumped in the corner being one of the last of the problems plaguing Oikawa that he has worked so diligently to resolve. It hadn’t been easy, but Oikawa never does easy, anyway. Kageyama can’t help but admire him even now as he shifts just slightly, feels the wire looping tight enough around his wrist he thinks that maybe he stopped feeling anything at all. Something wet and warm trickles slowly into Kageyama’s left hand palm, and he watches Oikawa’s smile light up. It’s pretty.  
  
“Haven’t you learned anything by now, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa says. His voice is almost fond. “Haven’t you been staring at me long enough to know everything.” Oikawa stands up. His steps are slow and measured as he walks over, and Kageyama can only stare, willing himself not to struggle. White blade, white teeth, white hands. Oikawa still looks so pristine despite the pool of blood cooling across the dirty cement floor. Kageyama tries not to think about how he would look like as another one of Oikawa’s bodies.  
  
“I have learned everything I need to know,” Kageyama says stubbornly. His mouth always did do its own thing. “Are you going to kill me now, Oikawa-san.”  
  
“Not cute, Tobio,” Oikawa smiles as he slides his small knife into Kageyama’s trapped hands, instead. It’s a game, of course it’s a game. Kageyama can feel sweat sliding down his neck. The lightbulb flickers suddenly, and Kageyama blinks against the sodium flare. “Your turn,” Oikawa says as he leans in, unarmed, and waits. “You get two moves.”  
  
Kageyama only needs one.

 

 


	3. treacherous

“It’s fun to keep pretending like this, isn’t it, Tobio,” Oikawa laughs softly near his ear. But the pretense lies like a tab on his tongue, yellow and sodium, and Kageyama knows enough of Oikawa’s sweetness to let the tension seep into his spine. It’s been years and he has yet to best Oikawa at any game.  
  
This is the game:  
  
White moonlight slants like knives against the cold glass where Kageyama is harnessed and clinging to Oikawa exactly forty-seven storeys above the glimmering billboards and highrises of Tokyo awaiting their extraction team, and the neon pink lights that cut across Oikawa’s face do nothing to soften it; they frame only the falseness of his mouth.   
  
Oikawa is the one who gets the mission orders; Kageyama is the one who gets the cherry red dress; they both get the solidly familiar slim packs that house the hastily disassembled parts of their twin sniper rifles, strapped almost invisible under their clothes as they wait for the signal from Control headquarters. The silencers on their rifles have barely cooled and Oikawa’s fingers still smell like hot metal and gunpowder, but he continues to play at lovers anyway, this many miles above the earth.   
  
“It’s cold, Oikawa-san,” Kageyama says mulishly. His holster is digging painfully into his thigh, and he’s running feverish with leftover adrenaline and too many amphetamines and the way Oikawa’s chest is pressed so warm and solid and real against his. They’ve been awake for almost four days straight now. Their target had been delayed in Hong Kong.  
  
“Leave that to me, my darling Tobio-chan.”  _False, false_.  
  
Everything smells heady with the dark earth and wood rose of Oikawa’s cologne and nothing feels quite right. Kageyama just wants to bury his face into the fine wool of Oikawa’s tuxedo jacket. He just wants to bleed the quickness from his bones. He just wants to go home.  
  
The light wind tugs at them and they sway, harness straps snapping cheerfully, and as Kageyama unconsciously tracks the blur of billboard and penthouse and Tokyo Tower lights, Oikawa holds Kageyama’s head completely still and starts to fix his smeared lipstick.  
  
Gentle hands. Kind smile. Neon pink painted across his teeth.  
  
Kageyama can feel Oikawa’s insistent fingers pressing into his jaw, he can feel Oikawa blotting the excess lipstick off his bottom lip. The wind pricks goosebumps across bare Kageyama’s bare shoulders; he can smell roses buried deep beneath the earth. A warm thumb dips only slightly into the wetness of his mouth and Kageyama clenches his teeth, stubborn even as his fingers curl tight around Oikawa’s arms. The entire world sways again in the wind and Oikawa laughs, “Focus, Tobio, focus, focus.”  
  
Two fingers taps against the hardness of Kageyama’s teeth, Oikawa’s long fingers that always have the lingering bitterness of the triple base powder from their rifles that match right down to the custom crafted scopes, and Oikawa’s hands pressing into his skin, bitter nitro under the short nails and the sweetness of gunmetal hot and heavy, smell-tasting so vividly of the smoothness of his kill shot that Kageyama feels awed all over again, feels like he’s watching in a slow-motion reel that man’s face disappear in a fine mist of bone and brains for a second time tonight. Oikawa had been especially pinpoint careful; he had barely ruined Kageyama’s dress with the blood spray at all.  
  
It’s becoming a problem. It’s a problem right now. Kageyama’s heart is a thing beating too fast in his throat, pressed right up against his mouth by neon pink pills and neon pink Tokyo lights and Kageyama is already half hard under the thin satin of his dress, and when Oikawa laughs again, slowly drags a single finger down the column of his throat, presses right where Kageyama tries to choke down this feeling, Kageyama knows he’s lost at this again.  
  
“Bang,” Oikawa mouths into his ear, and he slides two fingers into Kageyama’s mouth like he’s putting a bullet straight down his throat.

 

 


End file.
